


Presomnal

by pawsome



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pirate Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock is a Mess, Sick Sherlock, Sleepy Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:19:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pawsome/pseuds/pawsome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has gone so long without sleep that he starts to hallucinate. John has to deal with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Sherlock felt sick, and it was profoundly distracting. Sherlock's brain power had been overwhelmed by this fact, and he had been unable to think about anything other than this fact for an entire afternoon and night, which was very, very profoundly distracting, not least when he was trying to work on closing the case. Ridiculous, deficient, trivial transport. So, this morning he was (rather responsibly, he thought) planning to make a two-minute appointment with Doctor Google. He knew that John would disapprove; mostly because he was currently (and efficiently) hacking into John's laptop, without permission, in order to do it. Sherlock had been insulted by John's professional disdain for self-diagnosis and his (incorrect) assumption that Sherlock would simply assume the form of an idiot as soon as he stepped into Doctor Google's waiting room; that he would browse NHS Direct and then pick the most horrific disease he could find after rummaging through hundreds of panicky posts on forums. Of course, Sherlock knew where to find the most insightful medical journals, and he kept almost as current and informed as his scornful flatmate on the subject of Proper Medicine. It was invaluable for cases, and it was invaluable for all those times when he felt sick and didn't have time for-

'Is that my computer? Again?' John, in his dressing-gown, was standing in the doorway, looking just a bit incredulous.

'Yes,' Sherlock said.

'For the- How many times do I-' John sighed and stomped over to Sherlock's chair. 'Can't you just ask my permission?'

'Of course I could, John, but that would be-'

John moved to snatch the machine, and Sherlock's sentence was left unfinished as his energy went into holding on to it tightly, twisting it away so as to avoid introducing the information on the screen to John's angry, prying eyes.

'No don't, please; just let me use it for two minutes, John. Mine's not connecting, and this might be extremely important.'

John, suddenly less angry and somewhat taken aback by the 'please', mumbled his agreement while shuffling through to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

'Make sure you don't delete all my cookies when you delete the history,' he complained. 'It's so annoying when you do that.' He raised his arms in a familiar gesture of despair at the state of the kitchen, and began to straighten out the carnage; it appeared to be exactly the same carnage he had straightened out last Saturday morning. 'And stay off my Facebook!'

Sherlock didn't reply. He was reading a forum full of panicky posts about abdominal pain.

'So, what's on today then? Still the same case?' John asked. 'What might be so extremely important that you need to invade my private space and pillage my personal property? Again?'

John heard a 'ding' and a slam from his laptop as it was hurriedly shut down and closed, and he leaned around into the living room to greet Sherlock with a teasing smirk. However, he only caught sight of the tail-end of a fluster of coat and scarf as Sherlock left the room; his ambiguous reply lost through the hissing of the boiling kettle.

John was visiting his usual sites and reinstalling his deleted cookies, God help him, when Sherlock returned. Sherlock still felt sick. He must have looked sick too, because the first thing John said to him was, 'You alright?'

Sherlock froze at the abrupt question; his thoughts whirling too much to allow him to utter anything but the truth. 'I feel sick. I felt sick all day yesterday and all night.'

John felt as dazed as Sherlock looked. That was… honest.

'When was the last time you ate?'

'Oh, John, please don't start. I have to take these samples to Barts and I'm not going to have time to-'

John held up his hands. 'Okay, okay. Fine. Just saying… have some toast or something. You probably feel sick because you haven't-'

'Yes, yes, thank you, yes.' Sherlock murmured tersely, packing up some bottles and cultures into a box and spinning about, looking a little lost.

'Are you looking for something in particular?'

'Obviously,' snapped Sherlock. 'There was a flask on the side here, with a… a sort of…' He spread his hands impatiently. 'I don't know where…'

John propelled himself from the sofa and toward the kitchen with the sort of sigh that must have come out of everyone who has ever lived with Sherlock. He switched off the television. 'Well, maybe if you were a bit more organised, and didn't forget that I'm here and I have been offering to help…'

'John,' Sherlock interrupted, whirling around to face him. 'I need to find this thing, now. Ugh, John… You! You were meddling and tidying up again. Did you see it? I need to get it over to Molly because it's proof! Don't you see? It's proof that Clarke wasn't at the warehouse that day. I can prove it to Lestrade. He doesn't... I just…' He paused for breath, eyes darting around the room, pushing his hands through his hair. He was sweating, his face wan and flushed at the same time.

'No, I don't know. You haven't been telling me much about this one.'

'You've been busy. I needed to… Oh! There!' He located the flask in the top of the last cupboard, and put it in the box with the others. He lifted the box again, breathing heavily. He felt bloody awful. John stood in front of him, and frowned.

'Sherlock? I think you need to sit down for a bit. You look bloody awful.'

Sherlock glared at John. 'I don't need to sit down! I have to…' He felt his head grow heavier. He thought about Mycroft for some reason, and about bees and Bach and tangents as the mid-afternoon light grew dim and turned an ethereal green.

John must have seen it too.

'Woah,' said John. The box was removed from Sherlock's hands and he was grabbed around the waist. Sherlock's body realised at last that it had been functioning too fast for too long now, and he felt his knees begin to protest. He was barely aware of being jostled upright again; of being hauled toward the sofa and of being told, 'Sit down, before you fall down.'

The rest of the afternoon was… well…

The next thing Sherlock learned was that it was five o'clock and John was ironing.

'You're ironing.'

'Um, yeah? And you're awake. Go back to sleep.'

'You don't normally iron.'

'Who do you think does it, then? The ironing fairies?'

Sherlock did not deign to answer this ridiculous question. He did, however, have questions of his own. Why was he here, watching John doing his housewife duties? Wasn't he supposed to be going somewhere today?

'I don't… I've been…' He sat up, promptly, and remembered the case. The case! 'I can't sleep!' He struggled to untangle his limbs from his makeshift jacket nest and clamber to his feet.

John had set down the iron and his amused expression twinkled through a gust of steam. 'You looked like you could sleep alright a minute ago.'

'I have to phone Lestrade.' He shook out his jacket and shoved his arms into it. 'The case,' he said, looking wildly at John through bleary eyes. 'The samples!'

'It's alright, I've sorted it,' John chuckled. 'I phoned Lestrade. Told him you were ill.'

Sherlock snarled. 'Ugh, I'm fine. I don't get ill.'

'Well, please feel free to remind me that you don't get ill the next time you collapse and start babbling about everything being green. Just how long have you been without sleep?'

He didn't expect an answer, and even as he voiced the question he had resumed ironing his shirt, as Sherlock rushed around gathering things together and making huffing sounds of exasperation. After a moment of peering under cushions, behind the sofa and then bending down to search underneath it (for his phone, John assumed), Sherlock stopped and clutched at his hair, frowning at John in an expression of utter bemusement.

'Were we on a boat?'

John frowned. 'What? No.' When Sherlock began to look more bewildered, John stepped fretfully toward him. 'Sherlock? Are you alright? We're… in the flat.'

'Yeah,' Sherlock sounded breathless. 'Yes. It feels funny, though. Floaty.'

'Floaty. Okay.' John was at Sherlock's side in an instant, catching him as he swayed and removing his jacket once again. He pushed his listless frame down to sit on the sofa, and guided him to lie down, sideways. 'You shouldn't have got up, you idiot.'

Sherlock flashed him a hazy grin. 'Don't worry. I'm okay, Mycroft.' His voice had diminished to a slurred whisper. He drew up his knees, pillowed his cheek on his hands and closed his eyes.

John tapped his cheek gently. 'Sherlock? Open your eyes a minute; I want to check you over.'

Sherlock pried open one glassy eye and whispered, 'Check what?'

'Follow my finger with your eyes.'

Sherlock did. Without complaint. John took his wrist gently and monitored his racing heartbeat.

'Your pulse is a bit fast… Have you got any pain anywhere? Headache? Do you still feel sick? Have you taken anything today?'

Sherlock shook his head minutely at each of John's questions, and he kept his eyes closed against the whirling sparkle of lights that had threatened to dazzle him. John's hand was patting his shoulder. He apparently no longer had enough energy to be able to produce coherent speech, but he must have been making sounds because he could hear John humming, 'its okay,' between the swelling sound of waves. The comforting pats on his arm slowly became soft circles, which then ceased as Sherlock felt his shoes being removed. John must have left the room then; Sherlock could tell by the unmistakable cold draught from the door that blustered against his feet. He felt exposed in his shirtsleeves, but the cold of the sea was banished when John returned and covered him with a soft, shabby blanket and said, again, 'It's okay.'


	2. Two

'You know when you're at sea… the sky always looks less blue than it does when you're on the shore. Maybe it's because of the blue… erm. The blue sea, blue on blue, there's no… erm. Contrast, I suppose. No colour to… basis for… comparison.'

'Yes Sherlock. Shhh.'

'But it's a theory, I suppose.'

'It's probably a fact. Only you could have theories while you're collapsing with exhaustion. Even if they are bleedin' obvious ones.'

'Obvious. You're obvious. Captain Obvious of the… obvious… people. What was I saying?'

'You were saying that you were going to shut up and go to sleep.'

'No, it was… something. About boats. Important. Floating… boats.'

'No it wasn't. It wasn't important. You're just really, really tired, and a little bit mental.'

'John, why are you… Why do you… arguing with me? What did I…'

'Shhh. Sherlock, just - shhh.'

'Okay.'

John watched his friend yield to his floaty feeling and let it carry him into sleep once more. John stood up and went back to his chair. The clock ticked. John was bored. For the first time in a long time, there was nothing that needed doing: no case, because Lestrade had been round to pick up the samples and to give John the final details ('for the blog' apparently; although John suspected he just wanted to sneak a peek at Sherlock in his incapacity); no blog, because it was such a simple case and without Sherlock's interference he'd managed to get the entry done in record time; no housework, because Mrs Hudson (a bustle of bluebell chiffon on her way to meet Mr Gowing or somebody, from the bookies) had dropped in a handful of bills, taken advantage of Sherlock's unresponsiveness to coo and fuss over him, and, of course, tutted and flapped over John's ironing efforts. He'd grumpily told her to go and do it herself then, and she'd tutted a whole lot more and hadn't bothered to protest – only picked up the basket and said, 'Perhaps I'll do it tomorrow when I do mine. Honestly,' she'd sighed, 'You boys would be walking around looking like sacks of spuds if it wasn't for me.'

It wasn't like he had a boring life. But every now and then it would be nice to just have a normal weekend. A normal Saturday night out, perhaps; a date, maybe. Followed by a cosy lie-in on a Sunday morning and a massive fry-up. It was all or nothing; running around London chasing criminals, or sitting in his chair like an old man, listening to the clock tick. He'd love to go out, see a film, have a pint - anything normal, but he couldn't, because Sherlock would of course show up in person; strolling in and inflicting his great, commanding, one-hundred-percent socially astute and wonderfully pleasant persona on the quiet participants of a darts match, or the audience of a packed cinema, or, once, the congregation at a Watson family wedding. Tonight, if John went out and tried to be normal, Sherlock would simply wake up and do something stupid like try to stand up.

John tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, and rubbed his hand over his face. He glanced over at his friend. Sherlock's bouts of unconsciousness were interspersed with moments of vague lucidity, and this thought gave John an idea. Passing over the professional medic's voice in his head that said that Sherlock needed to rest (angel) in favour of the audacious one that spoke of revenge and made John smirk like he was doing right then (devil), he knelt beside his sleeping flatmate and poked him hard on the arm. Sherlock breathed in sharply and his eyes popped open. He barely focussed on John's face before mumbling, 'John. You look like a bird. All… feathery.'

'Thanks Sherlock. Am I a seagull?'

'Don't… say thanks. It's not a compliment. Scary.'

'Have I got a beak?'

'Ha. Yes. Beaky.' Sherlock blinked. 'Beakyface John.' He closed his eyes again.

'So, are you still on a boat?'

'Don't be stupid, John. We're in the. Erm. Place.'

'Which place?'

'I dunno.' Sherlock raised his hands in a lazy shrug. 'You're the one who knows. Everything.'

'Wow. I should be recording this.'

Sherlock opened his eyes again. 'Yes you should,' he said. 'Don't get to come out here often. Mum says it's too much, especially when Mycroft's got… you know.'

John's ears pricked up. Gossip! 'What's Mycroft got?'

'Exams.'

Disappointing. But hark, an opportunity!

'What else has Mycroft got?'

'A stupid face.'

'What else can you tell me about Mycroft? I mean juicy details. I want gossip.'

'He wants me to do puzzles.' Sherlock's feverish face suddenly looked sulky, petulant and about five years old.

'Puzzles? To make you brainy?'

'Yeah. So we can grow up to be scientists and rule the world.'

'And you don't want to?'

'No. I wanna go on a boat.'

'Like this boat?'

'Nooo. Like the one over there, with the... things. Flags.'

John stifled a laugh, remembering something Mycroft had told him, after the case with that woman. 'Is it a pirate ship?'

'Yeah… like a big, big ship. In the beautiful sea and blue sky.'

Sherlock's words were faltering as he started to drift off again, drifting on his pirate ship to the Land of Nod.

'Cool. Stay awake for a minute, Sherlock. I'm going to get you a drink because you have to take some pills, alright?'

'Don't want water; water's boring. I want some rum, on the ship. A big. A big bottle of grog.'

John patted Sherlock's hand, staggered to his feet and into the kitchen where he stood over the sink, laughing and laughing. This was much more fun than the pub.


End file.
